A Glowing Ember
by Hurbis
Summary: MOCKINGJAY SPOILERS! Full summary inside. What happens to Katniss when it's all over? The summary will be moved here sometime next week, to help prevent spoilers from leaking.
1. The Boy who Screamed

**Full Summary: MOCKINGJAY SPOILERS!**

**Katniss Everdeen has been restricted to District 12 indefinitely. While this is no hardship, recovering from her losses and lack of complete sanity is more of a hardship than she'd like. With the help of Peeta Mellark, Katniss begins to recover her life, one step at a time. The Girl on Fire is no more. She's little more now, than a glowing ember – the signs of life so present, but so small.**

**DISCLAIMER: Suzanne Collins owns the location, the plot, the characters. I only hope to shed some light on events that might have followed between the end of the book and the beginning of the epilogue.**

Recovering from the events of the war against the Capitol is a daily process; for Peeta and myself. I still feel like that girl, sometimes, the one who hunted in the woods, and made dandelion salads, and survived as best I could with my family. Mostly I still feel like that howling beast they dragged off to confinement after I shot Coin. Sometimes, I just stare at a wall, and think of the people I've killed, not just the ones who died at my hands.

Peeta says it's not unusual, but he has his bad days too.

There are days when I watch him bake, and those broad shoulders stiffen or hunch. Sometimes I can reach him and hold him. Sometimes he's forgotten, once again, who I truly am. Those are the very bad days, because Peeta has always been my wall and stability. When he's remembered who I am, we pass the rest of the day just holding each other, and wait for the pain to pass.

It's only been a few months since he came back to me, but already his presence has improved my life. I still grieve, but this being Peeta, I never grieve alone. I talk, and he draws and paints, and between the two of us, our pain is slowly being confined to a book that sits on the shelf beside my parents' book. These words, these private pages, go into a book of my own. I don't want anyone to forget the cost of violence, or what it takes to recover.

Gale once asked me how different it would be, taking a human life. I once reflected that it was identical in the execution, but completely different in the aftermath. Now I know for certain how I would answer him, if we could speak now.

The squirrels and rabbits and deer….they serve their purpose, and I do not mourn their loss. I give their remains back to the earth, and am satisfied. The people who have died….they never leave.

I have forgotten what the sound of Prim's laugh sounded like. I will never forget Cato's screams.


	2. The Boy with the Bread

**DISCLAIMER: This belongs to Suzanne Collins, all of it. I'm just supposing what happened between the last chapter of Mockingjay and the beginning of the epilogue.**

**R&R: Constructive criticism is welcome! However, I'd rather not have any tirades about how much you hated Mockingjay. I, for one, loved how Suzanne wrapped it all up, and the events of Mockingjay and of the epilogue are all (for my intents and purposes) canon. Thank you!**

Today, Peeta decided that I needed to smile. I don't know how he decided that it was time for me to try it, but this is how Peeta is. I don't question anymore how predictable and yet unpredictable his love for me is. I'm just so happy to have it back when I thought for certain that I would lose it.

The morning didn't start any differently than the others have, since Peeta's return. I passed the night in his arms, where he absorbed my nightmares into himself, and rocked me back to sleep. I awoke to find his side of my bed empty but warm. He always goes home to shower, and I think it is because neither of us is yet comfortable with what we call our 'fire skin'.

I, too, showered because hygiene has become much more important now that Greasy Sae is not the only person who sees me. It's not vanity, so much as knowing that Peeta deserves to see me trying to get better. He's the catalyst of my life, I think. I finished my shower, and went down into the kitchen for breakfast, and there it was. A warm bun, with melted cheese on the top of it, still molten and sliding down the curve of the bread sat on the tray, and I know it's mine. Sitting beside it, in a little bud vase, is a single dandelion.

That's when I know, I didn't lose the boy with the bread at all.

It's so hard to tear into the bread, but I did it anyway. I'm hungry, and it's not a feeling I take much pride in anymore. After all, everything I did was to keep my family from knowing that feeling. Experiencing it myself only increases my pain.

In spite of myself, though, I smile. The boy with the bread is still here, and he's all that matters anymore.


	3. The Man with Gentle Hands

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own ANY of this. It's all Ms. Collins'!**

**Reviews:**

**Thanks for the lovely reviews! Things won't always be light with the characters – I know that the next three chapters at least are going to be more bitter than sweet. However, remember that I'm keeping the epilogue canon! Also, if there's some sort of prompt or scene idea you'd like to suggest, please feel free!**

Peeta bakes, and I hunt. That's how we've always coped with the memories and the changes in our natures. Ever since we returned from the first Games, that's what we did. Baked and hunted – although sometimes Peeta painted. Still, it helps to fall into the old routine. As my doctor says – if you follow the routine, someday it has meaning. I hope so, since I haven't actually brought in any sort of kill from my hunting. I usually just hike to some place with a happy memory, and reflect in it.

Happy memories aren't too common, these days.

Today I go out hunting, still wrapped up in my father's hunting jacket. I've been wearing it for years and years now, but it's always still _his. _It's still too big on me, and I doubt I'll ever really grow into it, but that isn't really the point. I check the snares first, because that's simple and I don't have to kill anything, and I hire one of the boys to skin my kills for me now, because I can't bring myself to do it just yet. Not yet. Maybe next time, I can find the courage.

The snares offer me a good yield, and I add the two rabbits to my hunting bag. Then I root around, and find strawberries and katniss, and several other plants which I harvest – including chives. For a moment, the plant takes me back to the Arena, to the pitiful soup I'd made. To my desperation that had been so palpable I could taste it. I try to shake off the thoughts, and they're a horrible segue into what I know I must do next. I lay in wait, watching for my prey.

It's not long before a flock of wild turkeys soars overhead. I line up a shot, and drop a plump bird. It's clear I was distracted, because it isn't dead and I can hear it thrashing around in the woods. I draw my knife as I get closer, finding the bird pinned to the ground by one wing.

Like Rue.

I swallow the rising bile, and slash my knife down into the neck. Blood spurts onto my hands. It isn't much, but it is evidently enough. I think of Cato, of the horrifying feeling of Glimmer's ribs in my hand. Of the dent in Clove's skull, which still brings chills down my spine. I think of Wiress, of Mags. The body and blood count that rests on my hands, and it is all called to mind by the trails of crimson that now drip down my forearm. I have no idea when the screaming starts, but I know I sit there and scream and hope someone comes.

I know otherwise, I'll just sit here and scream forever.

It seems like nearly forever, when I hear someone stepping up just behind me. At first I think it's Peeta, but I know I'd have heard him coming a mile away. Right? Well, maybe not over my screaming. But it isn't Peeta at all.

Strong arms cradle me against a chest that has a lingering scent of liquor, and it doesn't take the tell-tale remark to indicate who this is.

"I've got you, sweetheart."

It's Haymitch. For once, he's not at all sarcastic as he lifts me into his arms, and carries me over to a nearby stream in a few strides. In fact, he doesn't say anything as he lowers me to the bank, and carefully scrubs my hands clean. It isn't until he's finished that he leans back and says quietly.

"It got to you, huh?"

I nod, and curl in on myself, trying to keep the swirling thoughts at bay.

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am eighteen years old. I have survived._

The old trick isn't working anymore, and I just start to cry. Haymitch's hands reach out, and draw me close once again. In the past this would have been awkward, but perhaps not. After all, Haymitch was the first one I ran to when I won the Games. Maybe I like him better than I let on.


	4. For the Readers

**A/N: For my beloved reviewers! Thank you for your encouragement! I always love logging in and seeing another comment on my little snippets! Thanks so much!**

_**Iheartpercyjackson:**_** Thanks for the compliments on the title! I loved the analogy (or is it extended metaphor?) that follows Katniss, and I really can't bear to let that legacy of Cinna die. But she isn't exactly on fire, either? So I thought of embers, and how they'll burn just as brightly when brought back to life! That was probably more than you wanted to know about the naming process, but I'm so terrible with titles and so proud of this one, I just had to share!**

_**Boo-bop:**_** I didn't wait until the end of **_**Mockingjay**_** to cry. I had to go get tissues less than mid-way through the book! I get very emotionally vested and I adore it when a book does to me what **_**Mockingjay**_** was able to pull off!**

_**ThisLittleDeath:**_** You are my most faithful reviewer, and I love that you comment on every chapter! It does my heart good, and you've a keen eye for drawing things out of my writing and bringing them to my attention. Thank you so much, and I hope you continue to review me!**

_**Ceylon205: **_** I was afraid that extending the Katniss/Haymitch relationship as I did might have been too much. But the image lingered with me all night, and I just couldn't shake it. Once I wrote it, I have to say I'm proud of it. Haymitch won't make many appearances, I'm afraid. He's my second-favourite character, and I'm afraid to write him. Any more references will probably include his drunkenness!**

**This has probably far exceeded the one-shot to come, and while I don't want to just update with strictly an A/N, I might have to. (Unless the rules of FF say you can't?) I just wanted to appreciate you for the glowing reviews and thank you so much because you keep me motivated!**

**On a final note, I want to say that if you have any ideas for little moments you'd like to see written, please suggest them! My limited imagination will only carry me so far, and it probably won't be long before I turn to prompts anyway, so feel free to drop in a request here and there, and I'll do my best to put them up!**

**Thanks again!**

**- Hurbis (Anna)**


	5. The Girl with the Yellow Yarn

**Disclaimer: Nope, it's still not mine! The characters, setting, and even the overarching plots and themes are all copyrighted to Suzanne Collins.**

I don't know how long Haymitch stays with me. We don't talk, and he breaks out a flask, but I don't touch the stuff. I remember how Peeta responded the one time I did, and how nauseated I felt. So Haymitch drinks, and eventually I talk. I've never been one for chatter, but today the words just flow and I'm helpless to stop them. I babble about blood and how it's never bothered me before. About how I wish I'd never won those stupid games, how then Prim might still be alive, and how I know now she'd have had the determination to survive it.

Haymitch says nothing, but by the time dusk is setting in, I have to help him home. I pull off his boots, roll him onto his couch, and wish that Hazelle was still around to clean the place. Maybe Greasy Sae will move on to Haymitch, now that I do the cleaning in my own home.

By the time I head back to my house, I know that Peeta will probably be at his own, checking on it and maybe even painting. I surprise myself by thinking how much easier it'd be if we only had the one house between us. I know that I'm not ready to cross any lines, or toast any bread. I just know that if I came home and the lights were on and Peeta was sitting in our chair with a sketchpad, I'd feel less like I earned a hollow tomb by my actions.

I'm so distracted by coming home, and thinking about cleaning my weapons and figuring out how to find someone to clean my kill, that I don't notice someone's presence in my home until it is almost too late. The soft grunt and footfall behind me, and I've reached up, drawn an arrow, set it to my bow, and sighted before I even realise what it is I'm aiming for.

Greasy Sae's little granddaughter, still not entirely right in the head, with my arrow a mere inches from her little nose. In one grubby hand, she's clutching a ball of yellow yarn that she has apparently snuck back into my house to retrieve. I remember that in the bad days, Greasy Sae was always telling the child to let the yarn alone, but there's no one here now who can use it.

I lower my bow with hands that are shaking so badly it is a wonder I don't damage the child anyway. Her terrified eyes are filling with tears, and my heart breaks the way it used to for Prim. The way it would have for Rue.

Before I've any time to think, I'm on my knees with my arms held out to hold her. The child's snotty face presses against my shoulder, and I stroke her matted hair.

"You like yellow?" I ask her, and feel the nod more than see it. "Then take it with you."

Then it's almost like I know what I'm doing – opening my heart to another little girl. With both hands, I shove the child away, fortunately in a gentle fashion. I could never, _never, _hurt a little girl of my own free will.

"_Get out!" _ I'm screaming the words over and over, and the little girl just stands there with the ball of yellow yarn clutched to her chest, poised on the balls of her feet to run. The effect only reminds me of Rue ready to fly, of Prim defending that stupid tomcat of hers, and my screaming becomes a low wail.

Too much screaming today, I think. I want to stop, I don't want to frighten this child, but I'm helpless to the broken choking that manages to burst from my chest anyway. Soon, Peeta and Sae are there. Peeta carries the girl outside, and when he comes back, he puts me to bed, and sits beside me, playing with my hair.

"You did this in the arena, real or not real?" Peeta doesn't answer for a long time, his blue eyes hard and seeing something terrible in the distance, though his fingers are still caressing.

"You'll never be able to have a daughter, real or not real?"

In that terrible moment, I'm afraid that I'm seeing that calculating Peeta return, the one I'd chase away to bring back the one who loves me. The one I love.

"I don't know."


End file.
